


Cresting

by QueenBoudicca



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudicca/pseuds/QueenBoudicca
Summary: When you can't stay in Mirkwood even for the love of your life, how does he handle your untimely return?
Relationships: Thranduil (Tolkien)/Reader, Thranduil (Tolkien)/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 69





	Cresting

Thranduil swirled the goblet of red wine with all the elegance afforded to one of his stature and caste. 

You stood with a bag packed, riding gear, and medical supplies but a few sentimental value items hidden in the folds. In contrast, the King of Mirkwood stared at the vibrant forest below. The expanse of his back blocking your final view of the kingdom you had grown to love.

“Thranduil,” your voice soft but firm. Each of your hearts breaking as the previous arguments hung in the air.

An elegant golden circlet and matching ring, motifs of autumn leaves, laid on the table—the emptiness of the unconsummated marriage.

When silence met your ears, the arguments were floating into the wind. 

Turning your back, you left with the swiftness afforded to the elves.   
Months turned in to years, rarely looking back but forever with your heart in Mirkwood.

Thranduil grew bitter as his taste in wine. Sitting upon his throne, he stared drolly—a mix of boredom and scabbed over rage, alone. His mind was audacious enough to manifest the image of you. 

The scent of fresh pine and morning rain took hold, blowing through the throne room—a dizzying surge of nostalgia and grief gripping the elven lord.

His steel-blue eyes were widening in shock. Seconds later, a scout collapsed at his feet. “She-almost-Y/N!” Thranduil flew to his feet, silver robes twisting and slowing his run. 

Ripping the outer layer off, he leaped and sprinted until you appeared with a unit of warriors.

A gasping and macabre image resting on the stretcher, limbs mangled from wargs teeth and twisted intentions.

In all his years as a warrior and leader, he’d never felt so reviled. His heart lay broken and defiled upon a makeshift stretcher. the presence of his followers, the blockading of his nausea. “Bring the head of healing at once!” 

Thranduil spun, taking the head of the stretching, decorum be damned. He would bribe the guards present with a cast of intense wine.

His son, Legolas, at the foot of canvas cloth supporting your fragile body. In your decade in Mirkwood, you had been a second mother to Greenleaf. Never too busy or tired to spare a moment or a day for the growing boy. Now father and son shoved those thoughts aside while you fought for every breath.

Stories spread throughout the kingdom of the almost queens return. All waited on bated breath, would the halls of Mandos call you home? If they did not, would you stay? 

Day and night, night, and day, Thranduil stood vigil. Legolas bringing his father food and drink in the hopes he would consume anything. 

Thranduil’s wound’s had been reopened; blood poured fresh from his fea. 

He was staring at you, his once lustrous silver hair draping along your side. His forehead pressed to the headboard that would have been your marital bed.

You had loved running your fingers through his locks on late-night visits. Stealing under his sheets to run your fingers over his hair and down his nose. His lips were slithering into a satisfied grin.

At the memories behest, he laid next to your prone form. The plush materials that had been stuffed into the mattress carried his weariness to Lorien’s gardens. 

After weeks Thranduil, in one of his rare instances, slept, his head resting next to your pillow. Creeping to consciousness, your breath even for the first time in weeks. Fingers clenching and cracking as the sleeping drought finally diminished. The deep browns and golds of Mirkwood surged into your consciousness, home.

Swelling in your chest, emotions building and cresting in torrents at the assault of memories.

Your neck turned stiffly to your left, every muscle groaning with the effort, atrophied.

Searching his face, tears welled. The wall of sand and rocks that kept the torrents at bay crumbling. Every line the same not a hair out of place, except his crown now strewn over one eye.

Left elbow cracking as you raised yourself and it to the bridge of his nose. Trailing a well-loved path from the bridge to the tip.

Twitching in that familiar way. “Kitten?” Your voice husky and cracking from a month of stagnancy. 

Sleep lingering in Thranduil’s head from months with very little of it. Gripping the sheets in his fists, gritting his teeth to come back. The ghosts of sleep, however, seemed determined to keep him under.

The king shivering as your finger raked his scalp and found the tangles. Your fingers were delicately plucking and untangling the disheveled bits lingering under his crown.

Once you could see a resemblance to the pristine ropes of shiny tresses, you dared whisper his name, “Thranduil.” The king was standing abruptly, all 7ft looming over you. Staring up at him with all the love of Luthien and the intensity of Feanor.

His chest wracked itself for air. Surging forward, he wrapped you in his robed arms. Peppering kisses to every inch of exposed skin. His bottom lip was eventually meeting your top. Each of you covered in the other. A light like no other built, illuminating all of Mirkwood.

A month later, the bells of lake town and elven voices sang out through valley and glen. The Queen of Mirkwood was renewed. A wedding was nigh on the first full moon under starlight and bough you wedded.


End file.
